Step One: Mastering the Art of Culinary Delights
“I love you, ****!!!!”
If someone had told me a long time ago that making pink cupcakes would make a boy declare his love for me, I certainly would have started baking/cooking a lot sooner. Well, at least, my initial intentions to “domesticate” myself had been based on the wrong idea that being able to cook, clean and sew will make up for my personal (physical) flaws; giving me that extra leverage on the marriage mart.
5 years ago, I took my first step of independence in choosing to move across the ocean and equator to pursue my studies in Australia. I was eager to move out of home and go crazy with my new-found freedom. Of course, with independence, comes responsibility as well. Half a semester of eating out left my taste buds stinging from MSG overkill and a stomach that was beginning to riot from the over-indulgence in oil. So, it was with great sadness that I bid a fond farewell to the dodgy (yet cheap and good) eating places in Chinatown and the lovely Italian restaurants near my student lodgings.
My mother once told me that you cannot get married unless you learn how to cook, clean and sew; her logic being that a good wife is one who can excel in providing domestic comfort (and bliss) for her family. I suppose her intentions were a little old-fashioned but all families have their own rules and regulations. With my mother’s words ringing in my ears, I bravely stepped into the kitchen to begin my adventure as a nascent cook. Let us say that my brother was most patient in eating the limited menu I was able to produce in the initial stages.
I had dabbled in a little baking when I was in junior college, making little brownies and carrot cakes for my classmates but I had never truly been a baker given that we did not have a proper oven back home or in the student lodgings that I was living in during my undergraduate years. In my last semester of undergrad, I moved to my own apartment and the greatest joy I felt was in having a proper kitchen, one with a functional oven and space to maneuver around. It was then, that I threw myself wholeheartedly into baking.
I subscribed wholeheartedly to the adage that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I cooked whoever was the “flavor-du-jour” lavish dinners, bringing him meals at uni and even resorting to cooking a ten-course meal for him in one night and bringing it all over to his place during the exams period. When I could not get him to come to dinner, I branched out into baking. Baking him sweet confectionaries and trying to entice him to come meet me with them. It sounds ludicrous but I was obsessed.
It was not all for naught though. I may have had the best intentions without the desired results, but in the process, I expanded my culinary repertoire. For the wrong person, I aspired to greater heights. I am no longer as obsessive about baking for him but the habit has stuck. I still bake 3-4 days a week; putting a lot of love and effort into my “made from scratch” creations but I am sharing them with friends and the other people in my class or work. It’s earned me the nickname of “Betty Crocker” and to be honest, I think I am happier “sharing my love” with everyone rather than one person who did not appreciate it the way he should have.
“I love you, ****!!!!”
If someone had told me a long time ago that making pink cupcakes would make a boy declare his love for me, I certainly would have started baking/cooking a lot sooner. Well, at least, my initial intentions to “domesticate” myself had been based on the wrong idea that being able to cook, clean and sew will make up for my personal (physical) flaws; giving me that extra leverage on the marriage mart.
5 years ago, I took my first step of independence in choosing to move across the ocean and equator to pursue my studies in Australia. I was eager to move out of home and go crazy with my new-found freedom. Of course, with independence, comes responsibility as well. Half a semester of eating out left my taste buds stinging from MSG overkill and a stomach that was beginning to riot from the over-indulgence in oil. So, it was with great sadness that I bid a fond farewell to the dodgy (yet cheap and good) eating places in Chinatown and the lovely Italian restaurants near my student lodgings.
My mother once told me that you cannot get married unless you learn how to cook, clean and sew; her logic being that a good wife is one who can excel in providing domestic comfort (and bliss) for her family. I suppose her intentions were a little old-fashioned but all families have their own rules and regulations. With my mother’s words ringing in my ears, I bravely stepped into the kitchen to begin my adventure as a nascent cook. Let us say that my brother was most patient in eating the limited menu I was able to produce in the initial stages.
I had dabbled in a little baking when I was in junior college, making little brownies and carrot cakes for my classmates but I had never truly been a baker given that we did not have a proper oven back home or in the student lodgings that I was living in during my undergraduate years. In my last semester of undergrad, I moved to my own apartment and the greatest joy I felt was in having a proper kitchen, one with a functional oven and space to maneuver around. It was then, that I threw myself wholeheartedly into baking.
I subscribed wholeheartedly to the adage that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I cooked whoever was the “flavor-du-jour” lavish dinners, bringing him meals at uni and even resorting to cooking a ten-course meal for him in one night and bringing it all over to his place during the exams period. When I could not get him to come to dinner, I branched out into baking. Baking him sweet confectionaries and trying to entice him to come meet me with them. It sounds ludicrous but I was obsessed.
It was not all for naught though. I may have had the best intentions without the desired results, but in the process, I expanded my culinary repertoire. For the wrong person, I aspired to greater heights. I am no longer as obsessive about baking for him but the habit has stuck. I still bake 3-4 days a week; putting a lot of love and effort into my “made from scratch” creations but I am sharing them with friends and the other people in my class or work. It’s earned me the nickname of “Betty Crocker” and to be honest, I think I am happier “sharing my love” with everyone rather than one person who did not appreciate it the way he should have.
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